


Reveries

by toli-a (togina)



Category: Justified
Genre: Alternate Universe - Westworld Fusion, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-15 09:05:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12317937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/togina/pseuds/toli-a
Summary: Raylan Givens wakes up. He buttons his shirt. He cocks his hat back on his head. He goes to work. He shoots Boyd Crowder in the chest.





	Reveries

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you watch _Westworld_ while being attached to _Justified_. Spoilers for the premise of the former (it won't make much sense unless you know how Westworld is set up) and the first episode of the latter. Boyd quotes from Romeo and Juliet.

Raylan Givens wakes up. He buttons his shirt. He cocks his hat back on his head. He goes to work. He shoots Boyd Crowder in the chest.

He never remembers falling asleep. He never dreams.

He wakes up. He does it all again.

“Do you ever feel like you’re trapped?” Ava wonders, smile too wide and hands shaking, fidgeting with the ice tray just to have something to do. Raylan looks at her trembling, spindly fingers and imagines them wrapped around his cock, wrapped white-knuckled around the trigger of a gun. “Like you stumbled into this life, somehow, and now you can’t break loose no matter how hard you try?”

“No,” Raylan says. He finishes his whiskey. He steps outside, bloodies Dewey Crowe’s nose. Shoots Boyd Crowder in the chest.

“Do you think you can shoot me?” Boyd asks, sitting across from Raylan in an old t-shirt and a new tattoo, offering up Ava’s fried chicken with a smile.

“Suppose we’ll see,” Raylan says, and reaches for a drumstick.

He always pukes the chicken up, after, vomits onto Ava’s stained dining room floor with his bloody hands deep in Boyd Crowder’s chest, trying to dig the bullet out and break loose. Eventually, they program him not to eat.

Boyd offers him Ava’s fried chicken, and nausea curls like a premonition in Raylan’s gut.

“I’m looking for Boyd,” Raylan tells Ava, tries to walk away and can’t, stumbles up to the church and traps himself in Boyd’s embrace.

“Never expected to see you again, Raylan Givens,” Boyd says, pouring moonshine into the two glasses waiting by the sink. There are always two clean glasses, dried and waiting, never another dish in sight. “Least, not while I was still alive.”

“Didn’t expect to see you still alive,” Raylan retorts, mouth numb from moonshine. He catches the reflection of a silver gun in Boyd’s eyes, hears the gunshot when he laughs.

Raylan sets his hat on the table; he hangs his jacket on the chair, nice and neat like he was trained. He doesn’t reach for a drumstick. He shoots Boyd Crowder in the chest.

“What if I gave you the same deal?” Boyd wonders, grinning too wide. His blunt, inked fingers curl over Raylan’s wrist, and Raylan stares. “What if I gave you twenty-four hours to get out of Kentucky?” Boyd continues, and the words echo off the courthouse’s tiled floors. “To leave and never come back?”

“Now you’re talking,” Raylan says, and means it, but neither of them go.

Raylan rubs the bruises Boyd’s fingers leave behind, and his shooting wrist aches when he draws his gun. He retches bile into the blood pooling by Boyd’s chest.

“You did it,” Boyd rasps, spitting blood and clutching at Raylan’s wrist. “You really did it,” he says, and Raylan doesn’t know why Boyd’s surprised.

“I dreamt a dream last night,” Boyd says, their boot heels clicking over the courthouse’s tiled floors, his face tilted down and gaze slanted up to catch Raylan’s face.

“You prophesying now, Boyd?” Raylan replies, rubs his hand over the butt of his gun and feels his hand shake with the bullet that strikes Boyd’s chest. “What, racist blaspheming ain’t enough to pay the bills?”

“Do you think you can shoot me, Raylan?” Boyd asks, his hands at his sides. Raylan rubs the bruises he can feel blooming on his wrist.

Raylan shakes his head. “Suppose we’ll see,” he says, still shaking his head, sees Boyd’s fingers curl over his belt and imagines them curled around Raylan’s cock, curled loosely around the trigger of a silver gun.

“You did it,” Boyd gasps, dying on Ava’s stained floor, brown eyes wide. “You really did it,” he says, holding on to Raylan’s shooting wrist. He’s always surprised. Raylan vomits up the sight of blood and the reek of a meal he never touched.

His wrist aches.

Raylan wakes up. He buttons his shirt. He cocks his hat back on his head. He goes to work. He shoots Boyd Crowder in the chest.


End file.
